


Zen and the Art of Maserati Maintenance

by elzed



Category: Life
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-01
Updated: 2009-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 12:05:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elzed/pseuds/elzed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five Times Charlie Crews’ thoughts turned to love</p><p>Betaed by the fab overnighter</p>
            </blockquote>





	Zen and the Art of Maserati Maintenance

_1._

“I hooked up with my wife last night.”

It sounds almost normal, except that when it’s your wife, it’s not usually worth noting, but even though Jen and he are divorced, she’s still his wife. She always will be. He should really learn to keep his mouth shut.

It would bother him if he let it, but Charlie’s been riding the Zen wave for long enough that he knows when to ignore stuff, not to mention the fact that his grasp of social conventions has been seriously warped by his time inside.

Besides, Ted doesn’t count.

Ted’s looking at him with big brown eyes under furrowed brow, and it’s immediately apparent – to Charlie at least – that his friend is torn between concern and macho camaraderie. On the one hand, getting laid is _always_ a victory for an ex-con, no matter what, a finger up to the Man, even when if this particular ex-con _is_ , in fact, the Man.

Ted is also one of the few people in Charlie’s life to have an inkling of what Jen meant to him. Means to him even now.

“And that’s… a good thing?” Ted enquires.

The sun streaming through the windows, big bold yellow squares on the floor and motes of dust floating through the air, that’s definitely a good thing. On the polished granite counter, a pyramid of multicolored fruit, bright shiny oranges, mottled pears, green and gold mangoes – that’s a good thing too. Outside on the drive, his Italian beauty of a car, half-shot up and half-patched up (he can’t make his mind whether to get the side panels redone because there’s something appealingly badass about the line of bullet holes); that still fits in the good column.

Sleeping with Jen in the motel room where they used to go sixteen, seventeen years ago? Rediscovering her taste, muskier and richer now than when they were young, her skin finer and more wrinkled, the breasts lower, a little softer, but the nipples still responsive and alluring when they perk up in response to his tongue… He doesn’t know anymore.

The memory of it is enough to make him half-hard, but Charlie’s fucked if he can tell whether it was the start of something new or the end of something old. They either achieved closure or took an axe to her marriage. He’s not even sure which he actually wants it to be, because he knows much better than she does that he is not at all the same man who married her back in 1991.

He crosses over to the fruit bowl and selects an apple, green and red with the promise of crisp white flesh and tangy juice. It’s disappointingly lacking in bite, but the taste is good enough, so he soldiers on with it.

“It just… _is_.”

“Right, man, the Zen thing.” Ted nods sagely.

Charlie takes another bite of his mediocre apple, chasing the flavor behind the slight mushiness, chews slowly.

“It’s just reality, Ted.”

“And how does reality makes you feel?”

“Now that’s where the Zen comes in,” Charlie says before throwing the apple core into the bin in a graceful arc, perfectly plotted – he’s had years of solitary to perfect his throw. “It’s all about experiencing the moment. And the moment has passed.”

“And was it good, back in the moment?” Ted asks.

Charlie leans on the counter, head cocked, considering the question. If he’s honest – and he tries to be honest all the time, these days – he has to admit it was good. And not just the sex. The thought that he was cheating on the bastard who stole his wife – his life – felt great. He can also admit that there are some things he doesn’t want to think about, like her children. _Their_ children.

It’s a good thing he’s mastered Zen thinking, because otherwise he would be screaming _They should have been ours_ in his head, and that really wouldn’t help in any way.

He turns to Ted and grins. “Come on, do I look like the kind of guy who kisses and tells?”

“As a matter of fact you do, yes.”

“Appearances can be deceptive,” Charlie says with a sigh.

He crosses over to the fridge, selecting the two coldest beers – he restocked earlier – twisting their caps off and sliding one across the counter to Ted. Suddenly he feels tired. He’ll think about Jen later, when he’s able to process it all. Or maybe never – he’ll just go with the flow, because things happen whether he does anything about them or not.

Time for a change of scene.

“Let’s go visit my orange grove. I want fresh orange juice for breakfast tomorrow.”

Ted nods, gives him a hopeful look.

“How about giving me another chance with your tractor? Far, far away from your car?”

“Nope. That ship has sailed, my friend. And you sank it.”

 

*******************************

_2._

 

Captain Tidwell is halfway through a briefing about the day’s assignments before Charlie notices how insistently he keeps looking at Reese. It’s not exactly new – the captain has certainly never shied from expressing his appreciation of the female form in general, and Dani Reese’s in particular – but there’s something more there.

For a start, Reese is looking back. Discreetly, under her lashes, but she’s definitely not giving him the cold shoulder, and that, he believes, is new. Charlie suppresses a smile (not very well, apparently, because Tidwell shoots him a quizzical look) but there’s a bubble of joy and mischief rising in him. He likes both of them, he knows Tidwell’s been nursing a not-so-secret crush on his partner from the moment they met – not that Charlie can blame him – and he also knows that her reserve and distance are a handy mask for her insecurity and loneliness.

Not that he’d ever say any of that to her face. He kind of likes his balls where they are right now.

But it’s Friday evening. The streets are calm, Reese’s gone home, and when Tidwell walks past his desk and mentions he’s going for a drink at the local cop bar, Charlie figures it’s as good an opportunity as any to get to know his boss a little better. He tells himself he’s doing it for his partner.

They down a couple of longnecks, exchanging amiable station gossip – apparently Delaney has asked for a transfer because he can’t stand his partner, and Tidwell is hard pushed to find anyone who’ll ride with the guy now.

“You’ll need someone whose arm you can twist, like Lieutenant Davis did when she needed to find me a partner.”

Tidwell smiles.

“Yeah, you must have been quite the prize when you came back. So – how was Reese with it?

It seems like a good enough opening, so Charlie charges straight in. No time like the present.

“You like her, don’t you?”

It’s a funny thought, that big ungainly man with his greasy hair and non-regulation haircut and stubble next to Reese’s neat and trim frame, her wide lustrous Persian eyes, her perfect skin… Yes, Charlie’s noticed his partner is a beautiful woman. After twelve years away from the fairer sex, he still has to fight a hard-on sometimes when he’s in the car with her, just from her proximity, her scent. It’s gotten better, much, but the first few weeks he found himself taking a lot of girls home to work through it.

Tidwell, on the other hand, looks like he’s surrendered to the pull, but is making every effort to look stunned at the suggestion.

“Who? Reese?”

“Come on, man. You can’t keep your eyes off her. Not that I blame you – she’s very pretty.”

“You’re not…” Tidwell starts, a crease deepening between his eyes.

“No, no.” Charlie shakes his head. “Besides, I think she likes you, too. But you probably know that already.”

“Hey, don’t look at me. I know nothing about women. You just… think what you want. And if you’re so fucking keen to gossip about your colleagues, can you tell me whether Johnson is sleeping with Gonzalez, or with Blaine, because I’m getting very confused here.”

But there’s a hint of smugness in his expression that tells Charlie he was right, and he represses a smile. A little love shared is never a bad thing, he thinks. A philosophy adopted, clearly, by several of his colleagues.

“Both,” he answers, draining his beer, as he watches Tidwell’s eyebrows raise in surprise.

It turns out there’s more mileage to be extracted from the office shenanigans than he thought there would be, and Charlie begins to wonder whether this is just his boss being friendly or if he’s being milked for information. Because there’s a pattern here, and the third time Tidwell asks him about how Reese and some other guy at the station – or precinct, as he keeps calling it – get along, Charlie cuts him short.

“If you want to know about her, ask her. I’m not your informer.”

“You got me wrong,” Tidwell protests.

“I don’t think so. If you like her, you should have the balls to do this to her face, not behind her back.”

There’s a slight feeling of unease at the back of Charlie’s mind, fuelled by Tidwell’s aura of sleaziness, his casual comments about women, his passing references to his former wives. This guy could be too much of a flake for Reese, or – more worryingly – exactly the kind of guy she goes for. Not a good thought.

“Whoa there, Crews. I’m not – hell, I’m not even sure what it is I’m not doing, but I’m not, okay?”

Maybe it’s the last couple of beers, or something about Tidwell’s reaction, but Charlie feels a rush of protectiveness for his partner, and mild irritation at the presumption that male camaraderie should override that.

He puts his beer down and pushes his stool back. Time to cut lose, before he lets it get to him. But he wants to make sure the captain gets the message.

“Listen, Tidwell, I don’t think you’re a bad guy, but don’t mess my partner up, okay?” He’s not making any particular effort to look menacing, but he’s come to realize that twelve years inside can do that to a man without him even trying.

To his credit, Tidwell looks taken aback but not overly concerned. He nods slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on Charlie’s, and attempts a smile.

“I’ll try not to. Or I would if I knew what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Okay,” Charlie says with a nod. “Okay.”

It’s as much as he can do for now.

 

***************************

 

_3._

Charlie learned more about Bobby’s marriage – the ups, the downs, the moments of weakness – during their occasional nighttime stakeouts than he did in years of riding together all day long. Waiting is what did it. Waiting, darkness, and silence.

Reese is almost dozing next to him in the drivers’ seat, long lashes fluttering on her cheek, her lips slightly parted, and right now is one of those slightly awkward moments when he remembers she’s something of a babe – albeit a tough one.

“So, Reese, what’s up with you and Tidwell?”

The line of her jaw tightens for a good twenty seconds before she opens her eyes and stares straight through him, breathing deep.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Crews.”

“Sure you do.”

He picks up the fruit cup he has balanced on the dashboard, spears a chunk of watermelon and pops it into his mouth.

“No, I don’t.”

“I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

“There’s nothing there except your perverted imagination.”

“I’ll plead guilty to having a perverted imagination, but there’s not nothing.”

Something flashes in her eyes, even in the gloom, and he’s not sure whether it’s anger, or fear, or maybe something else entirely.

“There _is_ nothing,” she snaps. “Nothing at all.”

“Careful,” he warns her. “You’re going to be sounding like me any minute now.”

He selects a piece of pineapple next, and bites into the juicy flesh.

“Why don’t you mind your own business?”

He considers arguing this – how is a combination of his partner and his boss not his business? – but decides not to, because he can tell her mood is verging on extreme annoyance, and they have several more hours to go before they can leave this place, if nothing happens. Charlie’s not as much of a masochist as everyone thinks he is.

“Well, he really likes you.”

“Crews!”

“What? You’re likable. I like you. Obviously not like Tidwell does, but…”

“Crews, shut the fuck up or as God is my witness I will shoot you.”

Time to let go, because she’s looking mad enough to do some damage.

“Okay. Hey, look!”

He points at the house and grabs the binoculars, glad of the interruption as the front door opens and a skinny man steps out and lights a cigarette. In the brief flare of the lighter, there’s enough of his profile – sharp, beaky nose, pitted skin, scrappy beard – to confirm this is their man.

“So Costa was here all the time,” she says under her breath, her hand snaking to her hip to loosen her gun from her holster. “Sonofabitch. Call backup.”

Later, much later, after all the paperwork is done and the suspect is on his way to lockup, she drops him off at his car before heading home in the pellucid dawn and just before pulling away, she opens her window and sticks her head out.

“Crews.”

He looks at her expectantly.

“Just... This is okay with you, right?”

He fights to stop a grin spreading over his face. Who’d have thought that Dani Reese would finally let her guard down?

“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, Reese.”

But he can’t stop himself winking at her as he walks off, and he’s pretty sure she’d be smiling if she let herself.

 

****************************************

 

_4._

 

It’s a warm, breezy night in the hills and Charlie falls asleep listening to the cicadas and the cars driving up the distant road, the scent of sagebrush wafting through the open window. He’s deep in R.E.M sleep when his phone trills, and it takes a few rings before he shakes the slumber from his head and picks up.

“Charlie? It’s Connie. I’m sorry, I’m sorry it’s so late but I need to talk to you.” She sounds breathless, a little crazy. He struggles to dispel a vague sense of impending doom, a leftover no doubt from a dream he’s already forgotten.

“Uh, sure. Just give me a second.”

He puts the phone on his bedside table, rakes a hand through his hair and picks up the bottle of mineral water by the bed for a couple of long swallows. That’s better.

“What is it, Connie? Are you all right?”

“I don’t know. Not really, I guess. Can I come over? I’m not far from you,” she asks, and he could swear she’s slurring slightly.

“Have you been drinking?”

“Please Charlie, I’ll be there in ten. Please?”

“Okay,” he sighs, “but I’m taking your car keys when you get here.”

It’s worse than he expected when she staggers through his front door a quarter of an hour later, mascara smudged and a wild look in her eyes, the smell of tequila on her breath. Thankfully she’s maudlin, not belligerent, and doesn’t protest when Charlie plucks the keys from her hand and pockets them.

“Can I make you a coffee?”

“Oh, fuck coffee, Charlie. Can I have a drink?” she snaps as she drops her handbag to the floor and kicks off her heels before sinking into the couch Charlie congratulates himself for having bought. He doesn’t think she’s going to make it out of the brown leather cushions easily, though.

When he opens the fridge he wonders whether he should go the same route – if he starts with coffee he will never be able to go back to sleep, but this is hardly the time for beer. Still, he doesn’t think Connie wants to drink alone, so he pulls out a couple of beers and opens them.

“Hey,” he says as he hands her one, and then he sits opposite her and waits for her to start talking. It shouldn’t take long.

It doesn’t.

“My husband is divorcing me,” she says, and Charlie can’t say he’s surprised, the way the two of them have been living for the past few months, on either side of the country with very occasional weekend visits thrown in. “He says he can’t do this anymore, and he’s met this girl, and – Charlie, I feel like such a fool.”

“You’re no fool, Connie,” he says gently, but he’s still wondering what’s coming up next.

“It’s just,” she hiccups, “it’s just I thought we could work this out and the distance would help and I just never thought…”

“That he’d find someone else so quickly?” Charlie supplies, and she nods furiously and starts sobbing into her cupped hands.

“Connie, I know… God, I know how painful this is.”

He’s considering moving over to the couch to rub her back or some other such comforting and relatively meaningless gesture, but he’s also acutely aware that she’s come to talk to him, now, in the middle of the night, and he doesn’t think it’s just because they have the shared experience of divorce. And Charlie doesn’t really trust himself with beautiful sobbing women who fling themselves at him – not that it happens that often, but he knows his weaknesses.

So does she, because she raises her head and looks at him pleadingly.

“Charlie, the worst thing is… it really is my fault.”

Oh no. Don’t go there. Please, he begs her, silently, with his eyes, but she’s not paying attention, focused only on her need.

“It’s… I… You know this is all about you, don’t you?”

“Connie…”

“I didn’t want to destroy my marriage but I wanted… I… Jesus, Charlie, you know I fell for you. You know, even if you’ve always done the noble thing, and not made a move, and not wanted to do this, because… oh, Christ, what have I done with my life!” and she starts crying again, big ugly jags that shudder through her whole body.

He wonders what she’s done with her life too, because this is the first time he’s seen her since that day at the station where she lied to him about Hollis and Jack Reese, and he’d really like to know what happened there to turn the woman who saved his life into someone he can’t trust anymore. But he’s also a human being faced with another in distress so he moves over to the couch – against his better instincts – and gingerly places a hand on her shaky shoulder and waits for her to calm down.

Eventually she does, her breathing becoming more regular, and she turns her tear-streaked face to him. Despite all the crying, she still looks beautiful and (he hates to admit it) sexier than he would want her to just now. Especially when she leans into him and lifts her chin so that her mouth is level with his, and Charlie realizes that he is powerless to stop her from kissing him.

It would all be a lot easier if Connie hadn’t been one of the few women he saw in his twelve years inside, and certainly the only one with whom he had any kind of positive relationship; easier if she hadn’t featured rather more prominently than he’d care to admit in his sexual fantasies – awake and asleep – in the endless days of solitary confinement in the SHU.

The long and short of it is that when their mouths meet there is a moment – a rather long moment – where Charlie’s hind brain takes over and enjoys the feel of her soft lips parting, of her tongue licking the inside of his mouth, of her breath warm on his skin. It takes a considerable effort of will for him to pull away, as gently as he can, one hand still on her shoulder. She moans as they break contact, and he feels himself hardening involuntarily.

“Connie, we can’t do this.”

“Why not? Don’t tell me you’re not enjoying this. You’re not that good an actor.”

“You’re a beautiful woman, and a great kisser,” he says ruefully. “But this isn’t what it’s about. And I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

She’s looking pissed now, frustration getting the edge over the earlier sadness.

“And why not? I remember how you used to look at me. And don’t mention my husband because, well…” She makes a vague gesture with her hand, and Charlie remembers quite how drunk she is and guilt floods through him.

“You’re drunk, and you’re upset. This is… this isn’t right.”

“Oh, please. You know I’d want this if I was sober. You know I wanted this when I was still… hell, you used to tell me that we couldn’t do anything because I was married. Well, that’s not an issue anymore.” She’s pure challenge now as she looks at him, the booze obviously egging her on.

“Besides, I thought you were all about living in the moment,” she adds.

“Why does everyone keep saying this?”

She snorts. “Hey, I’m not the one spouting Zen at the drop of a hat – you tell me.”

He shrugs, palms wide. Actually, he’s at a loss as to what to say. It’s partly because she’s drunk; partly because he slept with Jennifer less than a week ago; and probably quite a lot to do with the fact that Connie switched sides on him since she joined the DA’s office. But he’s pretty sure she doesn’t want to talk about that.

For a few heartbeats, they sit opposite each other, frozen in time, neither speaking. Charlie still feeling helpless, Connie challenging, until suddenly the alcohol and tiredness hit her, and she sags against the couch in defeat.

“I’ll give you a ride home,” he says, and she shakes her head.

“Just call me a cab, Charlie. Please.”

They barely exchange two words as they wait for the cab, but he walks her out to the car, checking out the driver before he lets her climb into it, making sure his LAPD badge is visible on his belt, and hugs her briefly before they separate.

“I’ll pick up my car in the morning,” she says as the car pulls away, and he nods and waves goodbye.

He’ll make sure to leave early.

 

*********************************

_5._

 

Fittingly enough, it ends as it started, in a car. Just as they started in the back seat of a car – her dad’s – and came together again in another – her husband’s – they end in his own shot-up Maserati, and he sees it coming even as he tries to pretend it’s not. In retrospect, Charlie begins to wonder if – despite all his Zen dedication – he has ever outgrown his boyhood attachment to automobiles, and what that means for the central role they seem to have played in his love life.

Clearly, he needs to work on it. But maybe later.

The evening starts promisingly enough, when Jen calls him to say she’d love to come by for dinner with Rachel, how nice it would be to see her, and can he pick her up on his way home from work because her car is in the shop for a busted side mirror.

The drive back to Charlie’s is light-hearted and friendly, even if he spends the whole time wondering what she’ll do if he puts his hand on her thigh. Thankfully, the car’s a stick, and the winding canyon roads require a fair amount of gear shifting, so the gesture remains an abstract proposition rather than a reality, which is likely for the best.

Dinner with Rachel – no Ted, who’s probably out mooning over Olivia, something that Charlie would rather not think about because then he’d have to think about his father, and he has promised himself not to, for his own peace of mind – is an unexpectedly lively affair. Rachel’s relationship with Jen is much easier and less spiky than his own mock uncle/niece deal with her, and it’s a pleasure to see them interact.

At one point, he’s rinsing fruit by the sink when Jen laughs at something Rachel says, and he turns to watch them. Their heads are bowed together over the table in conspiratorial glee, and it both delights and breaks his heart all at once, because they’re the closest thing he has to a family (although, to be fair, Ted should be here to complete the picture) and yet Rachel’s family is dead; and Jen made hers with someone else.

Sometimes, Charlie is acutely aware that his life is just a construct he’s put together with fragments of his past, which threatens at every turn to fall apart under the strain. Still, there is no small measure of joy to be found in it, day to day.

“Are you going to stare at those peaches all night, Uncle Charlie, or will you share them with us?”

Rachel’s mocking voice cuts through his thoughts and he smiles at her.

“Glad to see you’re finally succumbing to the lure of fresh fruit. Can I tempt you, too?” he adds, holding a couple of Georgia peaches aloft in Jen’s direction.

“When have you ever known me to say no to a peach?” she replies, and he wants to tell her he remembers just that – a picnic on the beach, fruit that had burst out of a wet paper bag and rolled into the sand – but he thinks better of it and keeps silent. Some memories he wants to keep to himself. Besides she’s sure to remember what happened after that, and it doesn’t seem right with Rachel here.

Later, when Rachel’s gone to her room and Jen has helped him clean up, they sit together at the table, nursing cups of espresso – Charlie’s glad he gave in to Ted’s suggestion they get a proper machine – reminiscing about Rachel’s childhood, about Tom and Paula, about things they once shared and now lost.

“It’s getting late, Charlie, I should get going. It’s a school night,” Jen says softly during a lull in the conversation, and Charlie nods.

“I’ll drive you home.”

He’s barely touched her all night but when they get to the car he can’t stop himself and he embraces her, chastely at first, arms wrapped around one another, but the scent and feel of her overwhelm him and he finds himself kissing her neck, murmuring endearments into her ear, and Jen melts into his arms.

Twelve years apart, and she’s still the woman he fell in love with in high school, she still gets him aroused without even trying. Twelve years apart, and he’s still in love with her, head over heels, body and soul. He reaches around her and opens the back door, pulls her in over him – this time it’s _my_ car, he thinks, vindictively – and starts kissing her in earnest, hands roaming under her clothes while his mouth captures hers.

They move against each other in perfect rhythm, and Charlie experiences a disconnect between his mind – which tells him it’s a school night, she has her kids, she’s not his anymore – and his body, so finely attuned to hers that it’s as if they were still together every night. Predictably, the body wins out, and he allows himself to forget everything else.

It’s only afterwards, when they’re both spent and sweaty, limbs tangled in the confined space, that it comes back to hit him, and Jen too, because she appears to be crying against his chest, so quietly he wouldn’t have noticed were it not for the warm tears falling on his skin.

“Hey,” he says gently, one hand cupped against her cheek. “Don’t cry, please.”

She looks up at him, love and despair and guilt shining in her eyes.

“We can’t go on like this, Charlie. We can’t.”

God, he knows that already. Has known since the very first kiss against her husband’s Merc. Of course they can’t.

“I know.”

“I was wrong, Charlie. I was wrong when I didn’t back you up, I was wrong when I left you, I was so wrong when I even allowed myself to believe that you could have done…”

“Shhh.” He puts two fingers against her mouth. “It’s in the past.”

She kisses the fingers, tenderly, tears still leaking from the corners of her eyes.

“But this too is wrong. I’m not who I was all those years ago. I’m someone else’s wife, and, God, Charlie, I’m a mother. I can’t do this. I can’t destroy my family.”

“Two wrongs don’t make a right,” he says, and wraps her tightly in his arms, hugging her close.

He doesn’t know where they’re headed, but he does know this – sometimes life is too complicated for happy endings; and much as it hurts him, maybe Charlie-and-Jen have had their time. But they’re connected in so many ways – by love and loss, by joy and grief, by a thousand shared memories – that there has to be a way to make this work. He’s not going to lose any more people he cares for, not even if he has to make sacrifices for it.

If there’s one thing he’s learned in Pelican Bay, it’s that love – in all its forms – is what makes life worth living. That, and he’s had enough solitude to last him a lifetime.


End file.
